


Vignette in a Bathtub

by chess_ka



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Cecil is Human, Character(s) of Color, Disabled Character, Fluff, Hair Washing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:03:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil loves washing Carlos' hair. Carlos loves having his hair washed. Then there are stories, some history, and a confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vignette in a Bathtub

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Branwyn for the beta read.
> 
> I have done my research for this fic, particularly when it comes to hair, but if I've messed up in any way then please let me know. Thanks!

“I can manage, Cecil. Honestly.”

“I'm sure you can manage perfectly well, but you don't _have_ to. Let me help.”

“Are you sure? You must have other things to do-”

“Carlos. What else could I _possibly_ have to do? I would _like_ to help. Besides, last time you did this one-handed you got most of the shampoo in your eyes.”

Carlos huffed a laugh. “Alright then. Thank you.” It was true. Washing his hair one-handed, the cast of his broken wrist awkwardly wrapped in a plastic bag, had not been a particularly successful endeavour.

“No need to thank me, my dear Carlos.” Cecil upended half a bottle of lemon-scented bubble bath into the tub. “You must realise that this benefits me as well, though I would prefer it if you didn't fall into any more unexpected pits. There, would you like to check the temperature? Giving you third-degree burns is _not_ my intention this evening.”

Smiling, Carlos stooped to dip the fingers of his good hand into the steaming water of the bath tub. It was hot, but pleasantly so. “That's fine, Cecil.”

Cecil, who had been biting his lip in concern, brightened instantly. “Oh, good! Do you need help with anything?”

“No, no I-” Carlos paused, considering the cast encasing his broken left wrist. “Actually, my buttons are a little fiddly?”

Cecil leaned his cane against the wall of the small bathroom and reached for Carlos. His long, clever fingers – untouched by the Lyme disease arthritis which plagued his knees - made quick work of Carlos' shirt buttons. He pushed the shirt aside and splayed his hands over the bare skin of Carlos' generous belly. Breath caught in Carlos' throat; months into their relationship and it still gave him a thrill to have Cecil's skin against his. Cecil noticed his reaction and smiled, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his lips.

“Bath,” Carlos mumbled after a moment, feeling a little light-headed. He wondered if that was because of the steam.

He managed to deal with his pants and boxers himself, leaning on the wall to awkwardly pull them off with one hand. Cecil rummaged around in a cupboard for shampoo, which was one of the things that the Faceless Old Woman had hidden in a fit of pique after Cecil had accidentally deleted a documentary she had recorded on Tivo.

The bath was wonderfully, deliciously hot, and Carlos sank down with a sigh of relief. He hadn't realised how tight muscles of his back and shoulders had become, hunched over in his lab all day. Cecil's long-fingered hands with their carefully painted aquamarine nails landed on Carlos' shoulders, his thumbs pressing at a sore point just above his shoulder blades. He groaned.

“Oh Carlos,” Cecil said, his voice taking on a slightly distressed tone. “You're all in knots! Your poor back-”

“S'okay,” Carlos mumbled, closing his eyes and letting his chin drop to his chest as Cecil's thumbs worked in circles. “It isn't that bad, really.”

A small snort told him exactly what Cecil thought of _that_ claim, but a kiss was pressed to his hair and Cecil's hands were gone. “Alright, I'll just wet your hair and then you can lie back.” 

Carlos nodded, keeping his eyes closed as he listened to Cecil rummage in the cupboard by the sink for a jug. He made a soft, pained sound as he sat down on the stool behind the bath and Carlos grimaced in sympathy. He hated that there was very little he could do when Cecil's arthritis flared up, making his knees swell and stiffen and forcing him to lean heavily on a cane when he walked. He tried to hide it, but Carlos saw the way his face tightened in pain, heard the small groans and sighs. Cecil was only thirty-seven years old (give-or-take, anyway; Carlos did not quite trust the timekeeping abilities of Night Vale citizens), and the arthritic flare-ups from his Lyme disease were becoming sadly more frequent. He resolved, again, to look into finding some possible pain relief.

Gentle fingers stroked Carlos' curls from his forehead, and Cecil dipped the jug into the hot water before tipping it in a steady stream over his head. The water felt amazing, running down Carlos' scalp and neck and back, and he felt more tension bleed from his taut muscles.

“Lie back,” Cecil coaxed, once he'd soaked Carlos' hair. His hands settled on Carlos' shoulders as he guided him to sink down into the water and pillow his head on a towel folded over the side of the bath. Moments later, Cecil's long, gentle fingers were buried in Carlos' hair, working shampoo into the curls. His nails scratched lightly against Carlos' scalp with just the right amount of pressure, sending a shiver down Carlos' spine. Carlos closed his eyes and gave himself up to the sensation, glad that he'd allowed himself to be talked out of trying to wash his hair one-handed. This was _much_ better.

“Your hair is so beautiful,” Cecil sighed after a few moments of close, contented quiet. He was fingercombing shampoo through the curls with great attention. 

“Glad you think so,” Carlos mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed. “It's all my own work.”

Cecil's hands shook slightly, and Carlos suspected that had he opened his eyes he would have seen Cecil giving his strange, silent laugh. When his fingers had resumed their gentle massage, Cecil spoke again.

“Would you grow the sides, do you think?” One hand drifted to rest against the short hair above Carlos' ears. 

“Maybe, if I get too lazy to keep it cut like this.” Carlos tilted his head to press his cheek to Cecil's palm for a moment. “Had it like this for years, though. Since college.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. My roommate, Hasan, his sister ran a salon. I never did a thing with my hair and it drove her crazy whenever she visited, so one day she sat me down and did this. I liked it well enough – it was out of my face for once – so I kept it. Mm, Cecil, that feels really nice.”

“Good.” The smile was evident in Cecil's voice. “I'm glad. I plan on doing this for a while.”

“My hair is probably clean enough, now.”

“It'll be clean enough when I've had enough of washing it,” was the prim response.

Carlos huffed lightly. “You'll wash me clean away, then.” He wasn't really complaining. Cecil's fingers were strong, gentle and clever, and the hot water had relaxed the clenched muscles of his lower back. He rather suspected he could fall asleep where he was.

“I used to hate my hair, you know,” he said after a moment. Cecil's hands stilled.

“How on earth could you have hated it?” he demanded, sounding bewildered. “It's so thick and curly and perfect.”

“That was what I hated. It was different to most other people's hair – it just grew upwards and I couldn't do a thing with it, and it was just another thing that made me a bit... different.”

“Ah.” Understanding was evident in Cecil's voice. “You said there were a lot of white people at your school.”

“Mostly white,” Carlos agreed. “With hair that obeyed the laws of gravity. So, you know. I was the quiet, weird, brown kid who had crazy hair.” He shrugged. “It doesn't matter now, but it mattered when I was twelve.”

“Of course it did,” Cecil murmured, and Carlos knew he understood. Night Vale was far, far better when it came to such matters than anywhere else Carlos had ever been, but it was hardly a racial utopia. “Though honestly Carlos, you think your hair is vertical? I really do have to disagree.”

Carlos opened his eyes and tilted his head back to look at Cecil. A sardonic smile was on his lips, his strange lilac eyes sparkling. His head was crowned with a large, uneven afro that lent several extra inches to his height. “I guess you win the vertical hair award here,” Carlos agreed.

Cecil laughed softly, bending forward to kiss Carlos' temple. “I got the Vertical Hair merit badge when I was a scout,” he said. “No one else in my troop managed it.”

Carlos grinned, though he was not entirely certain whether or not Cecil was joking, and closed his eyes again. “I'm glad,” he said absently. “Your hair is lovely.”

“My mother always braided it into cornrows,” Cecil said conversationally, resuming his massage of Carlos' scalp. “She insisted on it, said it was much neater. I hated it, but she at least let me have beads in the braids. Sit up, I'll wash the shampoo out.”

“I bet you were really cute.”

“You'd have to ask Josie or someone. She probably has some embarrassing photographs.” Cecil paused his story for a moment in order to pour clean water over Carlos' hair, rinsing away the froth of shampoo. “When I was about to start middle school I told Mom that I didn't want the cornrows any more, and she agreed to let me choose what to do with my hair so long as I learned to look after it.” He paused. “Anyway, it was getting difficult for her to do my hair, since she wouldn't look at me very much. The cornrows were awfully crooked, most days.”

Carlos didn't really know what to say to that. He reached up and took Cecil's shampoo-slathered hand in his, squeezing tightly. Cecil squeezed back.

“Would you tell me about her sometime?” Carlos asked tentatively. “Your mom, I mean.”

Cecil squeezed Carlos' hand once more then rested his palm on Carlos' chest, just over his heart. His fingertips stroked lightly over wet, soapy skin. “She was very serious, and she worried very much,” he began slowly. “She would hide from things, and not even normal things like hooded figures or Street Cleaning Day or wild desert turkeys. She would disappear for days at a time, but she always came back. When she was herself she told stories and played the piano. She was rather beautiful,” Cecil's rich voice was wistful, and if Carlos hadn't been so fascinated he would have told him he didn't need to say any of this. “At least, I always thought she was beautiful. Her skin wasn't as dark as mine, though she had the same colour eyes. Her hair was much softer than mine, and she wore it in a long braid. Her father was Navajo, you know. One of the Code Talkers in the Second World War.”

“Really?” Carlos opened his eyes and tilted his head back again, watching Cecil in fascination. Cecil's eyes had a soft, faraway look to them, and he was smiling sadly. An ache swelled behind Carlos' ribs, and he rested his hand over the one on his chest, lacing their fingers together.

“Oh, yes. I don't remember him very well; he died when I was small. But he told me all sorts of stories, and taught me some of the Navajo language before the City Council changed its list of permitted languages.”

“What about your father?”

Cecil stiffened for a moment, and Carlos backpedalled. “I'm sorry, you don't have to-”

“No, dearest Carlos. It's fine. After all, you've told me about your family. I don't mean to keep secrets. Some, of course, I have to keep because I no longer remember the truth of matters, but I should share what I can.” He moved his hands back to Carlos' hair, squeezing conditioner over his head. Carlos never bothered, but he was quite content to let Cecil do whatever he wished. “I never knew my father, honestly. I believe he was an Outsider, and Night Vale... did not wish for him to remain. My mother had a photograph on her dressing table of him – at least, I assume it was him.” He paused for a moment. “He had hair like mine. Though his was in rather better shape.”

“I'm sorry,” Carlos said honestly. “I know that it's – I mean. I didn't know my dad, either. He left.”

“Yes,” Cecil sighed. “Your _abuela_ did a wonderful job, though. I wish I could have met her.”

“She would have loved you.”

“Do you think so?”

“You love me. That would have been enough.”

One of the hands in Carlos' hair moved to his jaw, tipping his head back so that Cecil could lean forwards and kiss him. It was slightly awkward, being damp and upside-down, but Cecil's full lips were warm and soft and perfect. When they broke apart Carlos couldn't stop the smile spreading over his face.

“You know, I think learning to look after your hair also means trimming it occasionally.”

Cecil snorted and pressed a smear of conditioner to Carlos' nose. “My hair is fine,” he said tartly. “I take care of it.”

“I know,” Carlos agreed in amusement. It was true; Cecil was far more careful about his hair than Carlos was with his own, making sure it was oiled and tended. He let Carlos rub his preferred avocado oil into his roots sometimes, and Carlos thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of Cecil's cloudy hair between his fingers. “But it'll be too heavy to stay upright soon.”

Cecil made a harrumphing noise, tapping Carlos on the head. “Sit forward so I can rinse the conditioner out. And I suppose I should speak to Ayanna Flynn about getting it trimmed at some point.”

“The new barber isn't so bad, you know.”

“Hmph. I don't trust barbers, Carlos. When I got back from Europe I went to – ugh – to _Telly_ , and I have no idea what he put in my hair but it ruined it entirely. I had to cut it short and grow it again. Ayanna knows how to look after natural hair.”

“Fair enough,” Carlos conceded, squeezing his eyes shut as Cecil rinsed the shampoo from his hair. “So, er... is that partly why you hated Telly so much?” 

Cecil froze, then set the jug down. Carlos heard a faint hiss of pain as Cecil got up off the stool he'd been sitting on and came to sit on the damp bathmat in order to be face-to-face with Carlos. He touched gentle fingers to Carlos' cheek, his brows furrowed.

“I never told you about Telly, did I?” he said. “Oh, _stupid_ Cecil! Stupid!”

“What? No, you didn't tell me – Cecil, don't say that.” Carlos seized his hand tightly. “You're not stupid. What didn't you tell me?”

“ _Ugh_ , you must have thought I was such a – a control freak! No wonder you avoided me! I suppose I thought you'd have been told...” 

“Cecil! Cecil, it's okay. Just... tell me now?” Carlos hated to see Cecil looking distressed, colour high on his cheekbones.

Cecil took in a shaky breath, then spoke in a significant tone. “It's not important really. Carlos, could you turn the radio on, on the shelf? Let's have some music.” He raised an eyebrow as he spoke, and Carlos recognised that this was something he would prefer the Secret Police not to listen in on. He reached up to the shelf above the bathtub and flipped the radio on; the sound of various owl hoots and screeches filled the warm room as Carlos leant toward Cecil.

“Some of Night Vale's citizens are in the pay of the Secret Police,” Cecil murmured, beginning to fingercomb Carlos' damp curls. “They offer services that will be of use, and in return they receive certain... benefits, or have exceptions made.”

“Like Big Rico?” Carlos whispered back.

“Yes, precisely. Big Rico is one of the more genial – if he sees anything of interest, he can pass it on, though it is worth noting that Rico can be trusted only to pass on truly... ah, _necessary_ information. But it is an excellent way to keep tabs on citizens, if they are mandated to be at a certain place at least once a week, you see?”

“I... yes. I suppose so.” Carlos was still not comfortable with the levels of surveillance in Night Vale, but he had come to accept it as an unfortunate fact of life. “So Telly was in the pay of the Secret Police?”

“Yes. Telly was able, by use of certain chants and rituals forbidden to other citizens, to take control of them in some way, which was very valuable to the Secret Police. To do that, he needed some part of them – like their hair.”

“Like voodoo?” Carlos tried to keep the doubt out of his voice. His scientific sensibilities still reared against the idea of something like this, but they were putting up less and less of a fight these days. After all, he had evidence of dragons and angels – voodoo seemed relatively simple in comparison.

“Hm, I suppose it is similar in some respects to people's _idea_ of voodoo, though I doubt it actually has much to do with the Haitian or West African religions.” 

“I – no. No, of course not.”

There was a moment of silence as the owl shrieks on the radio reached a crescendo, before going back to some quieter hooting. 

“It became common knowledge many years ago,” Cecil continued quickly, still in a low voice. “And citizens reacted accordingly. We learnt to take our cut hair home, learnt to burn the hair in the correct blood stone rituals. It prevented any hair left behind being used to control us. I didn't just avoid Telly because he had no idea how to look after my hair.” Cecil shook his head. “So when you went to him, to have your beautiful hair cut, I realised – you didn't know. And Telly could use the hair you left behind to control you, to make you do or think whatever the Secret Police wished you to do or think. Of course, I couldn't let on that I knew, so I went rather overboard, let people believe it was grief over your cut hair that drove me.”

A cold shiver passed down Carlos' spine. He had a vivid image of Telly, out in the Sand Wastes, sunburnt and wild-eyed, clutching a handful of Carlos' hair as he tried to trim the spines of a large cactus. 

“I was trying to protect you,” Cecil whispered, his lilac eyes wide and beseeching in his dark face. “I thought someone would have told you the truth, dearest Carlos! Oh, you must have thought me so overbearing.”

“No, I-” Carlos hesitated. “Well, I did for a bit, but then you were always so – respectful and sweet when we actually met, so I... I didn't know what to think, but I trusted you. I suppose I knew there was an explanation. I didn't think the explanation would be mind control, but still.” He paused, then rested his good hand against Cecil's cheek. “Thank you. You always looked out for me.”

Cecil smiled. “Of course, dearest Carlos. Somebody had to, after all.”

Carlos grinned, leaning forwards and kissing Cecil once. “Okay,” he said. “Are you done with my hair? The water's going cold.”

“Oh! Of course, yes. Let me get a towel-” 

“No, hold on. I can manage. Anyway, you'll never get up off the floor yourself.”

Cecil scowled, but he relented and settled for staring openly when Carlos stepped out of the bath, smirking at Carlos' raised eyebrow. Wrapping a large, soft towel around his waist, Carlos helped Cecil painfully to his feet and handed him his cane.

“Come on,” he said, switching off the small radio. “I need to dry off, and you need to take some painkillers and sit down somewhere more comfortable.” He leant up to kiss Cecil again. “Thank you for this.”

“It was my pleasure.” Cecil stroked Carlos' damp curls for a moment. “Can you make some of that tea? The oolong and paprika?”

“Sure, if that's what you want.”

“And can we watch _Bringing Up Baby_?”

Carlos didn't bother trying to hide his smile, looping an arm around Cecil's waist as they left the bathroom. “Anything for you, Cecil.”


End file.
